


Usual Stakes

by fishingclocks



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pretentiously Long Driveways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy feels that there is no conceivable way he can lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Usual Stakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xyriath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/gifts), [Bentclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bentclaw/gifts).



> this was written as an apology fic for the ever-patient [xyriath](http://xyriath.tumblr.com/) & [wolfgirl44](http://wolfgirl44.tumblr.com/) \- to xyriath because she managed to stay so _sweet_ to me when i _lied_ repeatedly about when i would have my fic for the royed gift exchange up, and to wolfgirl44 because they may not have known it but i am the slacker that never got their gift out. i _will_ be posting it as soon as i've finished, but i just felt the need to apologize anyway. and what better way to show repentance than otp schmoop??

Roy has somehow managed to drag Edward along—with minimal kicking and clawing, which Roy’s glad he won’t have to explain away this time—to the yearly Someries Gala—renowned by the gossip rags for its ‘lavish setting,’ ‘influential guests,’ and ‘geniusly arranged décor;’ and to all that attend it every bloody January as ‘boring as hell,” and ‘a necessary evil.’

Impeccably spread gravel crunches as their driver turns into Someries Park; the elaborate iron gates are open, lit, and waiting—Roy’s seen them more times than he can count, and the lifeless ‘celebration’ he knows is waiting for them inside has dimmed any residual interest in the Someries architecture, but he’s glad to focus all of his attention on Ed in the seat beside him, who looks nothing less than flabbergasted at the grandeur. His expression is vaguely horrified—Ed’s always had a morbid fascination with ‘goddamn rich people,’ and Roy has taken every opportunity that leaves for teasing him about being such a blatant country boy. At the moment, however, all motivation to tease is lost to the scoff playing its way across Ed’s lips, and the clean lines of a waistcoat spread so tight across that broad chest that Roy wouldn’t be surprised to reach out and find it painted on.

Ed shakes his head and says, “What’s the damn _point_ of a gate when you can’t even see the _house_ yet?” as if the Fuhrer’s Mansion wasn’t the same way. Roy hums, managing to convey just the proper amount of interest versus amusement with the sound, but his cover is blown when a hand that Roy belatedly realizes is his own reaches out to brush a stray tuft of hair from Ed’s eye; Ed turns to him, and when their eyes meet he tries very hard to come off as exasperated. “You haven’t even been listening to a word I’ve said this entire time, have you, you giant sap.”

“Treason and cabal,” says Roy, and it tastes like ‘I love you.’

“Ain’t treason if it’s true.”

“I’m afraid I have some news for you, Ed…”

“Bastard, you _know_ what I mean.”

And at the familiar insult Roy can’t hold in the laughter anymore—the full majesty of Someries Park is finally coming into view over the top of a hill but he is dazzled by Ed’s snicker and the sparkle in his eyes. He never wants it to leave. So Roy says “Scandalous, Mr. Elric; so blatantly insulting your Fuhrer. What _will_ everyone think.”

“That you’re a fuckin’ pushover,” Ed shoots back, shoving at Roy’s heavily-decorated shoulder, “and they’d be _right_ to, too. The people have a right to know what kind ‘f fucking mistake they made electing _you_ their leader.”

God, he deserves to hear that—from Ed’s lips most of all—but the tone they’re spoken in is so joking. Like Ed doesn’t believe those words could _ever_ be taken seriously, like the mere _thought_ of it is ridiculous.

Ed looks like he might say something more—he may have caught onto the direction of Roy’s thoughts, because that _intolerable_ line between his eyes is there again and his hand is brushing against Roy’s—when their chauffer says, “We’ve arrived, Majesty,” and pulls to a stop at the end of a line of cars whose length may actually have necessitated such a ludicrously long driveway.

“Ah,” sighs Roy, in a vague attempt at hiding his relief at the interruption. “That took longer than expected. Still, I suppose that’s one way to deter unwanted visitors.”

Ed says “Roy…” but if he planned to say anything else it’s abandoned when Roy shoots him a smile that was originally intended to be reassuring and just ends up as a smirk.

“Are you ready to try and convince society that you’ve cast aside your country ways for civilization?”

“You _dick_ ,” Ed responds, which was exactly what he’d been going for. “Is that a fuckin’’ _challenge_?”

“Not explicitly; but then again, it’s not one you could even hope of winning, so I might as well say yes; yes it was.”

A snort. “I’d love to see you _try_ , Mustang. I’m gonna be so _fuckin’_ civil, those rich bastards in there won’t even know what hit ‘em.”

“Mm, we’ll see. Usual stakes?”

“Usual stakes.”

The door on Roy’s side of the cabin opens unexpectedly—Roy’s gloved fingers brush together threateningly and Ed’s shoulders are tensed to clap—a habit still so ingrained into his body’s memory—but their driver stands in her place resolutely, unbothered by the display. “We’ve arrived, sirs,” she repeats in practiced monotone.

Ed’s grin is vicious. “After you, _Fuhrer_.”

It briefly crosses Roy’s mind that this might have been a terrible, terrible mistake on his part; but then again, this is already the most entertaining Someries Gala he’s ever attended, and he hasn’t even left the car yet.

He plants a kiss on Ed’s cheek, whispers, “Good luck, darling,” into his ear—notes with disproportionate satisfaction the slight-shudder-dark-blush it draws from the blonde—and sends a sugary “Why _thank_ you” to their driver— _she_ does _not_ blush.

 

-

 

Ed hadn’t realized until nearly five months into their relationship that he’d never _actually_ learned Roy’s age. He made jokes about it all the time, of course, but it hadn’t ever been explicitly mentioned; not in _all_ their years of knowing one another.

Roy remembered that day with such staggering clarity it might as well have happened yesterday—your lover pounding his way into your private office and nearly sending the door flying off its hinges was something you tended to remember; assuming you weren’t Roy Mustang and this occurred on a nearly weekly basis and it was what came _afterward_ that made the moment memorable. Roy nearly envies himself from back then; so unwary of the full power of Ed’s focused curiosity on an issue he had tried so _hard_ to keep vague ever since the number on his birth certificate had begun to correspond less with an expensive vintage wine and more with “Are you sure this won’t make us _sick_?”

Roy remains convinced to this day that someone was to blame for piquing that fearsome curiosity, and he was certain it had to have been a premeditated, cunningly executed attempt on his life. Following this theory, there was very likely a traitor in his midst, because:

  1. Roy could count with the number of Amestris’ allies the amount of people he was close enough to for the to know he had been explicitly vague with Ed about his age on _all_ of the time they had known each other (meaning as soon as he had rooted out the traitor’s identity all communications would be dropped and a war was likely to begin within the hour).
  2. They had to have known Ed and he were exclusively close at all which, at the time of the debacle, was not common knowledge to a larger part of the nation like it is today, so that ruled the list of assailants down drastically.



and c)   He had been fairly certain it was Jean Havoc, but after several “nights out” together and intensive interrogation, the man had remained clean.*

*which was hardly surprising. His new suspect is Kain.

So Ed had stormed up to Roy’s shiny new Fuhrer’s desk, not-quite-fury, far-from-fondness _intensity_ written all over that perfect, perfect face, and Roy remembered wishing enough of his brain was left him by that focused stare to come up with some on-the-spot witty innuendo, possibly involving said new desk, but then all thoughts of sex were replaced by mortification and heavy _dread_ with the words “How old even _are_ you, Mustang?”

Of course, he had to give sheer fucking _panic_ credit; he was in control of enough of his mental faculties for a comeback after that. “Have I done anything particularly immature, Edward,” _damn_ , that was a slip-up; he’d managed to keep his expression locked into fond yet baffled amusement, but the full-name was a dead giveaway—he only called him “Edward” when he’d been caught in something particularly unpleasant, and Ed _knew_ it, “for—you to ask me that question?”

The perfect arch of an eyebrow, a tick that hadn’t even been a part of Ed’s non-verbal vocabulary before Alphonse’s body had been restored—Ed had always tended to pick up little things from the people he spent time with, Roy thought, remembering the period not long ago when the Tringham boys had bunked with the Elrics and Ed had picked up that despicable, _tempting as sin_ hair flip. One look was all Ed needed to call Roy on his bullshit—Roy wondered looking back if Ed hadn’t picked that up from Alphonse, but

Riza, and had resolved to give them less opportunity to spend time together; the possible hazard to his personal safety was too great if they officially joined forces one day. He’d decided to end the misdirection before he got in too deep.

He’d said, “I promise I made no direct efforts at hiding that information from you, Ed.” A lie; well, _almost_ a lie. Maybe a lie, in a roundabout sense; not enough of a lie for Roy to feel like the scum of the earth telling it. “Honestly I assumed before now it was just… common knowledge, around the office. It _had_ been, before, but Ed had been fifteen with much more to care about than “Colonel Bastard’s” age, and then Roy had been elected Fuhrer.

“For fuck’s sake, Mustang,” Ed had immediately followed up, and Roy had no retort for those eyes narrowing and hands planting themselves forcefully on Roy’s desk. “I’m not one of your goddamn politicians—use _real_ words, please?

Roy decided the knee-jerk “I’m curious as to which of those words you’d describe as ‘fake’’ was a mite tactless, and so he was forced to just reply with a small “Okay,” because there wasn’t much he could say in this situation if he was being deprived of his ‘politician’ words.

Ed looked slightly derailed by the transparency, and didn’t that just set fire to Roy’s lungs.

However, for all of Ed’s intensity and menacing eyebrows, and for all that the simple fact of his existence was more than he could comprehend, Roy was still a politician—and a damn _good_ one. In the next fifteen minutes Roy had managed to worm his way out of answering the question directly and back into Ed’s good graces. Another two and they had settled into an armchair together, talking and making use of his office’s privacy until a knock and a frightened sergeant had come to deliver an economical review from West—later Ed had run into them in the hall; they had apologized profusely for walking in on him and Fuhrer Mustang in such an ‘intimate position,’ the wording of which still made Ed snicker—when they had scurried out of the room, Ed had sauntered over to the door. “Seeya later, Roy. When d’you think Hawkeye’ll let you out today?”

Roy groaned apologetically. “There’s no way to know. I’m afraid this business with Internal Affairs is forcing everyone to keep odd hours.”

“Aren’t you _Fuhrer_?” Ed had said, rolling his eyes—the familiar teasing. “If anyone can get out of work when they want to it’d be you, bonehead.”

“Well you know the drill; have to keep up morale, that sort of thing. We wouldn’t want everyone thinking me an unsympathetic leader, now would we?” Levering himself out of the chair and making it look effortless was more a task now than it ever had been, but Roy wasn’t about to open up the opportunity for Ed to ask again about his age, even if he did have to pay for it with shrieking back muscles and the floor dropping out from underneath him for a second or two.

“To be fair you aren’t exactly the most relatable guy to begin with,” said Ed; his lover leaning against the doorframe ever-so-casually and grinning sharkishly, while always easy on the eyes, never bode well for Roy in the end.

“On the contrary,” Roy replied, “I like to think I’m encouraging and a good role model.”

The snort that drew out of Ed made everything worth it. “I’m _afraid_ for anyone with you as a role model, Mustang.”

“I take offense to that.”

“Feel free to. It wasn’t exactly meant to be a _compliment._ ”

Roy hummed; at what, he couldn’t say, but their noses were inches apart and the curve of Ed’s lips was ruthless, and the ache in his chest felt like home. He curled a hand around the back of Ed’s neck and just… stayed. Forehead to forehead, Ed’s hands running over his back so gentle and strong and reassuring, and before this, he hadn’t ever really understood what ‘content’ really meant, had he? Back in the calm before the storm with Riza and Maes, or when he had finally become Fuhrer and had finally gained the power to _fix_ this country—he had felt it, then, _of course_ he had. But that had always been _for_ something; there had always been a goal in the back of his mind. There weren’t any obligations, with him, just…

Ed.

And maybe that could be enough—

“I’ll see you when you’re done being masochistic, then, huh?” Ed said, pulling away with a knock to Roy’s ribs.

Ed had such a talent for taking Roy’s entire scope of reality and shifting it just a little to the right.

He was out the door before Roy could fit in another word.

That night, at 2300 hours, when Roy had stumbled into the Fuhrer’s mansion—he had had no intention of ever living in that godforsaken place, or of ever making _Ed_ live there, but so much abnormality had happened in the past year for the Amestrian people, and he would hate for _this_ to be the match in the powder barrel—he had been greeted by Ed, half-asleep and cuddly. When he had finally steered them up the double-flight of stairs to their room without any major incident—a vase was left shattered at the base of stairs but he could transmute that back in the morning—and into bed, Ed’s last words before drifting off had been, “Y’know, 39 ‘sn’t _that_ old.”

He had always known that having Edward Elric in his bed would send him to an early grave; Roy had just been hoping it would be under much sexier circumstances.

 

-

 

Roy feels that there is no conceivable way he can lose. He’d lost Ed in the crowd mere seconds after they’d entered the ballroom, so there isn’t a way to tell for sure, but this is _his_ environment. Libraries and labs and homely little apartments may be Ed’s, but the pomp and posture has been his domain long before Roy had even joined the military.

He’s confident in a crowd; people act differently when their every word could be overheard, could be later used to someone else’s advantage. They provide all of the opportunities of a private meeting, without any of the intimacy.

There’s something about Eckart galas in particular that sets them far apart from the rest; Roy suspects that, oddly enough, that something happens to be their abnormal mediocrity.

Every year, at the height of winter’s chill, the Eckart family hosts the same party, and every year the entirety of Amestris’ Most Influential And Important attend. There is nothing inherently fascinating about the venue—on the scale of old guard mansion luxuriance Someries Park falls squarely in the middle—Roy’s remarked before that it’s as if they all just _decided_ to attend; and with every passing year, he’s more inclined to back the theory up.

Or maybe, Roy realizes, it’s that firm position in the middle ground that draws so many people in. Just three meters away are Joseph Jord and Carleton Baldric—Jord the main reporter for up-and-coming news radio station _Border to Border_ , and Baldric owner of the company behind manufacturing Gamage brand radios. Someries Park is accessible to all sides of the spectrum; from entrepreneurs to old money—mediocrity is a common ground few find unrelatable.

Well that sounded sufficiently dreary; he should write it down.

“Fuhrer Mustang!” Roy starts, berating himself for being so easily distracted—approaching are the Adelheid’s--perhaps the most aggressively pleasant couple he’s ever met—but it just as easily could have been an assassin; or worse, Mr. Eckart himself. “ _Always_ a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Majesty, I’m sure.” Mr. Adelheid, the more outspoken of the pair, tips his hat, yet remains at a respectful distance—apparently shaking the Fuhrer’s hand is still enough of a taboo to discourage even the prominent families. Bradley had discouraged it because he had reasoned it would ‘humanize’ the Fuhrer’s role—the irony was thick enough to drown in. Roy of course returns the gesture to both of them; he tries to smile half as widely but he lacks the physical capability.

Roy replies, “The pleasure is mutual, I assure you, Mr. Adelheid; Mrs. Adelheid.”

“I’ll say, though, sir; isn’t this little even simple _divine_? You meet _all_ sorts at an Eckart party.” Mrs. Adelheid says, dreamily. They both nod—Mr. Adelheid with a murmured concession of, “Indeed; all sorts.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying it,” Roy says neutrally. If he shows too much or too little enthusiastic support for one family’s event, then he must show that level of excitement for them all, or they’ll presume he’s playing favorites and the nation will fall into ruin. Ed has compared his ‘party voice’ to an over-worked mother—immediately followed up by “Does that make you Amestris’ step-mom, since we divorced Bradley… Am I your son-in-law?”—in turn followed up by the start of a lovely migraine.

Damnit. He had invited Ed alone tonight in hopes that it would be _less_ distracting, not having to think of him back home and _waiting_ ; instead, Ed is just across the room, and all Roy wants to do is stay by his side and mock the ‘pretentious fancy people crackers;’ they are especially dry tonight; tangy, with just a hint of the tears of the lower class.

Of course, the Adelheid’s move the conversation right alone—whether they hadn’t noticed the Fuhrer’s distant expression, or had deemed to ignore it was a secret their genuine grins would carry to the grave. “Speaking of meeting new people—Johannes, you remember—we met your Mr. Elric tonight, Fuhrer.” Mrs. Adelheid’s expression seems to hold nothing more than the best wishes, so Roy assumed it had gone marginally well.

“Really? I lost track of him shortly after we came in, where did you see him last, I wonder?” He’s been hearing rumors about Ed all night, even if he hadn’t seen him, and they had all been so overwhelmingly positive Roy’d been beginning to wonder if no one had _actually_ seen him since their entrance; making up good things to say about the Fuhrer’s lover to get in his good graces.

“Oh, yes!” Mr. Adelheid interjected, “I don’t believe I could forget him.” More privately, leaning into Roy ever-so-slightly, “Sir, I don’t know how you managed to find such a _dashing_ fellow from out East. A gentleman through and through, I always say, don’t I, Helena?”

Ed hasn’t been taking his time, Roy thinks, and if he can’t help the genuine smile that spreads across his face, well; he can afford one slip-up. One thing Roy knows for sure—he’ll have to step up his game if he even _hopes_ to win this bet.

            Rule 1: Put some clever spin on the small talk. When small talk fails—

            Rule 2: Ask about the children.

Mr. Adelheid is, of course, delighted by the turn of the conversation. “They’re doing _smashingly_ —but then again, aren’t the always?” A pause for laughter Roy almost feels _sorry_ for faking. “Our Dinah has the voice of an angel, and Carlyn the mind of a future State Alchemist.”

“Who knows,” adds the missus. “Maybe Mr. Elric will be her instructor when the time comes!”

Roy doubts that. Roy really truly doubts that.

Ed, for all he insists on helping out now, in his heart of hearts, is _longing_ to settle down and write—he’d wanted to be a part of the new State Alchemist Training Camp—“To make sure no one fucks up and lets a goddamn _twelve-year-old_ join again,” was Ed’s reasoning, which, while obviously not meant to be serious, had given Roy more than a moment of pause. Diplomatically, Roy was going to reply, “I’m sure Mr. Elric would greatly enjoy having your daughter as a student,” but he’s interrupted by “I hope I’m not interrupting?” and Edward Elric’s sweetest, sappiest smile.

For a moment, all Roy can do is stare. A moment is all Ed needs.

Roy’s right arm is taken hostage as Ed links them together—presumably so he can’t escape—and when he’s addressing the Adelheid’s, who at this point are so thrilled one would think Ed had _proposed_ , his voice is positively _dripping_ saccharine beneficence, and Roy really might lose this after all.

“I hope this one wasn’t bothering you too much,” says Ed. The Adelheid’s laugh— _laugh_ , what was _funny_ about that?!

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Elric. In fact, we were just talking about what a _charming_ match the two of you make, weren’t we Helena?”

“Please; call me Edward, Mr. Adelheid.”

“Only if you’ll call me Johannes, _Edward_.”

They laugh, _again_ , as though they’d just made a particularly clever joke, and Roy decides that he _will_ not be bested at his own game. He shifts his arm from Ed’s iron grip to wrap around his waist, and says, “I’m so glad you came, _dear_ —Johannes and I were just discussing how much you love to teach.” To Helena, “I think he’s finally found his calling—he’s so good with the men. Raises their spirits.” While it was true Ed enjoyed teaching, he _loathed_ working with the State Alchemist hopefuls—on a daily basis he’s heard them referred to as ‘sleazeballs,’ ‘lazy-asses,’ and ‘fuckin’ incompetent, why the hell are we even still _thinking_ ‘bout letting Carter in, he’s a goddamn _perv._ ”

Ed’s smile could cut diamonds. “Fuhrer Mustang is _too_ kind.”

“Oh, _no_ , Edward!” interjects Helena, “It’s like I always say; our teachers never do seem to get their due—it’s a _tragedy_.”

Roy nods sympathetically. “I agree wholeheartedly. You know, I had actually been considering implementing a holiday in honor of Amestris’ teachers.” That might have been taking it a little too far, but Roy could feel himself taking the lead, if the Adelheid’s enthusiastic approval was anything to go by.

“What an _excellent_ idea, Fuhrer Mustang!”

“We could host a party at the University!”

“Speakers from all over the country!”

“ _Speaking_ of parties—Helena, I need your advice,” Ed finally manages to grit out.

Roy has no idea where he’s going with this. It’s slightly nerve-wracking.

“Oh?” asks Helena, visibly intrigued.

Ed nods. “See, I was thinking of hosting one of my own, and—oh, you don’t know, do you?”

Mr. Adelheid, fully invested now, asks, “What?”

“Well, Fuhrer Mustang’s 40th birthday is in a few weeks...”

 

-

 

Looking back, agreeing to ‘the usual stakes’ was a poor idea on Roy’s part—even if he _had_ won the bet, the damage of continued exposure to Ed’s cooking over a week might have been enough to do him in, like an elaborate and poorly executed assassination-through-culinary-incompetence.

So it was almost…lucky, that he’d lost.

It’s just the _way_ he’d lost that irks him.

“Roy Mustang are you _pouting_.”

He forces his expression to something more neutral and says, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ed is, of course, _delighted_. “You _are_. Fuhrer fucking Mustang, pouting because he lost a fuckin’ bet. _Who’s_ ridiculous?”

“ _You_ ,” Roy hisses, “ _You_ ; pandering to their compulsive need to throw _parties_.”

“Hmph, you started it. ‘Sides, didn’t you hear that general guy? You should really be watching your _stress_ ; wouldn’t wanna start goin’ _gray_.”

They both knew Roy already had.

He sniffs—at this point Ed is laughing harder than Roy’s heard in a very long time, a decidedly not-metal hand is skirting up his thigh, but he’s not quite ready to let this go. “Anyone would, when _this_ is the thanks they get for trying to bring this country out of a goddamn depression.”

Ignoring all established automobile safety procedures, Ed is now pulling Roy against his chest—because he’s tall enough to do that now, as he’s so happy to remind absolutely everyone who will listen—he feels rather than hears the beating of Ed’s heart—it’s always beat so slowly, alarmingly slow; but for all the times it’s stopped, _been_ stopped, it’s picked up again, at that same slow, slow pace. It’s amazing, the synchrony with which Edward Elric manages to exist, that even such a small bundle of muscle and vein would echo his impossible _stubbornness_.

“You’re pouting again,” says Ed, and it almost sounds like “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> on a side note, this is the first fic i've ever completed, so constructive criticism is absolutely welcome!! and again, i'm terribly sorry wolfgirl44, xyriath. i'll have my gift exchange fic up soon!!! <33


End file.
